Smoke and Mirrors
by brahman
Summary: A past, a present and the future. The truth of what happens is not in what people see and believe but what actually takes place, but all explanation is subjective. A look at the past, the present and the future. DG/Cain.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own nor pretend to own anything of recognizable creativity here. My creations are my own but that is the limit of it.

**A/N:** Thanks to my beta, who had the job of wading through a lyrical style not many would have the courage to tackle.

_"The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness" – Victor Hugo_

A flash of lightning, jagged across heavy black clouds.

A stillness before the storm, waiting.

Rumbling of thunder and the knowledge of it all moving towards her, inching, falling slowly towards her.

She holds Az's hand with one of her own, her sister's fingers thin and fragile. She imagines she feels the bones, the delicate nature of them underneath the skin, smooth and cool white bones underneath skin sweaty with fear. And her sister does fear, twisting in the nightmare plaguing her, chasing her through the darkness of her dreams.

DG's heart twists, heavy in her chest, at her sister's pain, at the knowledge of fragility, shadows under closed eyelids, face so pale red veins are apparent under the skin, stark and brilliant.

Another roll of thunder, a rumble deep in the base of the castle and DG shivers even as it seems the castle shivers, moves, settles into wait. Just as she waits, sitting next to her sister, the ticking of the night moving towards morning.

It's quiet, except for a mumble of the approaching storm. A lack of wind, a lack a noise.

From so high she doesn't hear those in the camps, the camps that were set up around the base of the castle, though if she were to go to the window she would see the flickering of firelight in the darkness. But she doesn't move from where she sits at her sister's bedside, Azkadellia's hand in her own, the flow of magic warm and constant between them.

DG wonders if her presence, if her magic, is helping her sister flee from the shadows haunting her sleep or if she is making the shadows worse, her magic a catalyst, a conduit towards the darkness.

So very fragile, DG thinks.

But she hadn't been, not immediately after of the fall of the witch, not when she stood at the window, the family watching the eclipse fade away to light. Az had stood tall then, slightly worn, but tall. But it had taken effort, DG knows, a steal in her spine, a force of character that DG wondered at then, still wonders at, to be able to beat away the exhaustion, the grief, the guilt and the darkness.

A darkness licking about, wanting access, denying the witch's death.

No longer the witch, DG knows, her fingers tightening about Azkadellia's, wondering if others will remember or if they will always see her sister's face as that of the witch's.

The thunder is closer this time, the lightning just a little bit brighter and a gust of wind smelling of rain moves the gauze curtains at the window. DG looks away from the face of her sister, to the window, out the window, to the swollen sky. She loves storms, the feel of them, still and precise before they break, the time during, the nature of it, fierce and unpredictable and she wonders if it is because of her experience with them, an indicator of something new, something different and then she wonders if something new and something different are things she still yearns for.

Changes. She thinks. So many changes and she isn't sure how to process them all, move through them, make sense of them.

A flash of blue eyes, precise, clear.

DG looks back at her sister to banish the thought, the image, guilt a strong pull at her gut, along her spine.

She knows guilt.

Knows it smells of death.

And consequences. Always consequences. She hadn't understood then, doesn't think she understands now, but knows it's the case nevertheless. And when people comment on her innocence, on the wide-eyed expression, the acceptance of those things around her, she knows they can't see it, the feelings there, lurking, easing upwards until she can barely hold back the need to choke. The inability to breathe.

Breathing, the in and out of air, oxygen, life. She focuses on it and finds as she focuses on the breath the magic becomes brilliant, not distant, but now, immediate until it falls away, slowly, slippery.

But the magic is warm, strong, moving back and forth between DG and her sister and she wonders how she could have not felt the thrum in her nerves, the smallest of indications of the power there, waiting for her to access it. She can now, a small amount, a little bit, if she concentrates but there is a line, between concentration and breathing, a line she can't quite maintain.

The years lost, the time spent outside of the Outer Zone, time lost with her family, her people, the magic in her veins and in the air she breathes.

But her loss is nothing to the loss others have had to endure through the years, nothing to what she brought about that one afternoon in the cool dank cave, a place she can still smell, a smell of dust, rot, lost souls and other things better not named.

A shiver, coinciding with the thunder, the flow of wind now, cool against her skin, and DG shivers more, once and then twice, at the thoughts, at the coolness of the wind, at the uncertainty of everything.

From certainty to uncertainty, from boredom and the knowledge there is something more, to too much and not enough time to think. To reason.

Suddenly and completely she wishes for a pencil, chalk, a piece of charcoal between her fingers, something she knows, understands, is good at it.

She is finding there are many things she is not good at.

The rain begins in a soft patter of presence, increasing until the drum is a constant rhythm above their heads and the thunder shakes the room, the stones, the castle itself. DG wonders at the soldiers at the foot of the castle and hope they have shelter against the wind and moisture, against the rain currently making a puddle at the foot of the window.

The lightning hurts her eyes as it lights up the room and she closes them, for a moment, dry and dusty behind her closed lids.

She opens them, refusing sleep.

Sleeping brings dreams and she isn't sure she's ready to face those yet. Dreams have never frightened her, they have always revealed the truth no matter how vague. But she is not sure if she wants the truth, the brilliance of it or the darkness.

Knowledge. Illusions. She wonders at the truth and knows, looking once more at her sister, truth is only truth when it is explained, identified.

Simplicity, she wonders where it has gone and if she will hold it again.

The storm rumbles on, moves away. DG watches her sister relax into a deeper sleep, the hand she holds slowly releasing its grip. Fear along Az's sleeping face falls away to unconsciousness, to something deeper where fear cannot follow.

DG lets go of her sister's hand and pauses, a moment, to watch the slow rise and fall of her sister's chest underneath the sheet and then moves from the chair, stretching, bones creaking, moving about one another before going to the door and slipping out into the hallway.

She doesn't know where she is going, footsteps quiet against the stone steps, but she thinks downwards. She knows they had traveled upwards earlier, when the two of them were the only ones left in the tower room and Az had started to shake, face like a ghost and eyes dark with pain. Hours, maybe, after the initial victory, after Cain had gone looking for his son, after Glitch had followed the Tin Man, after Raw had gone looking for his kind, for his relatives, letting them go because suddenly and completely there was something, something between them and she knew it started with the bowing, with the reverence for one of her station.

And she doesn't know what to think of the change in her relationship with her friends, not then, not now, but she had responded by looking after her sister, knowing their mother was taken care of by their father and because she knew it was what she had to do.

So she'd helped, moving through the many hallways, finding the room that was not the witch's room, which opened to let in the cool evening breeze, and she had helped her sister get into a bed, helped her out of the witch's constricting clothes, found the sheets, the blankets and then sat there, holding her sister's hand in response to the plea in dark eyes and the choking feeling in her own throat. Sat and watched.

But now she wants out, away from the closing walls of the castle, wants to feel the air, smell it now the storm has passed on and away.

She follows instincts, and then she follows sounds until she turns a corner and finds herself in a hall with ceilings so high they are lost in shadows.

A mass of men and women, cots and bedding, and a great fire in a great fireplace flickering across the scene.

It smells of battle, pungent, blood rich and red, of something like rubbing alcohol, and the voices are low but the groans are loud and she holds herself against the wall with a hand, feeling apart, distant but clear, precise.

Raw sees her, sees her from where he stands in the corner and what he feels is complex, multi-layered, but laced with a sadness so deep it catches him, drowns him for a moment.

He struggles against it, clearing his head, and then braces himself and with slow steps moves towards where the woman stands, seemingly upright but supporting herself with the wall, with a hand hidden from view.

She looks at him, before he has made a sound and she smiles though the smile does not move to her eyes, bright blue but distant. Raw sees and feels and puts his hand out to touch her shoulder, briefly, a graze, before letting it drop away.

Healing is not what she wants and he knows and respects it though does not understand the why behind it.

"There is so much pain," she says quietly, distantly, looking across the great hall.

Raw nods.

She looks at him and he sees the guilt choking her but says nothing, compassion heavy on him and she knows, just as he knows, looking back at the men and women spread out, that what has taken place is more than just what she did fifteen annuals ago, something more, out of her hands, darkness and light, good and evil.

She wonders when she will fully believe it.

"Did Mr. Cain find his son?" She asks without turning to Raw. She sees him nod out of the corner of her eye and something eases in her chest, something she hadn't realized was tight.

"He and son, not happy, but will be," Raw offers and DG nods slightly at the information, glad for it.

She wants to help, to do something, to cure what cannot be cured and wonders if her magic will allow her to do that, ease pain, do something, her hands, the skin of her palms itching to do something.

Raw touches her, on the arm and she turns to look at him.

He shakes his head. "Cause more hurt, right now," he says.

A pang, stab, something twisting at the base of her spine.

Raw looks deep, through his hand, through his eyes. "Will help, one day, just not now."

DG doesn't want to hear it and even rejects it, for a moment, a brief time, gathering herself, to contact the magic, mold it, but there is no control, no ability, she sees it even as she feels the thrum of warmth along her nerves, ever present, just not altogether attainable yet.

Like breathing. She thinks. And wonders why.

"I could at least help them, provide aid…" she starts and then stops.

"Princess," Raw answers her and the reason is in the one word.

"Ok," DG says and then turns from Raw, letting his touch fall away, smiling slightly at him, before walking back the way she came, away from the pain she is unable to take away, the knowledge she doesn't have.

It's an ache and she feels frustration, anger, at this, everything.

She pushes it away, like she pushes open the door, out into the night air, relief, finding herself on one side of the castle, the moon now bright across the night sky, across the falling away clouds in the distant and the barely glimmer of dawn.

There are fires, campfires, lit here and there and tents. The smell of battle is not as strong outside the walls of the castle and as she walks away from the stone walls she thinks about continuing, to keep on going, to find the road leading back to somewhere that is not here.

The thoughts shame her. Duty, she is finding she has always known it but the realization of the knowledge is worse than the knowledge itself. Because there is a duty, towards her sister in the room at the top of the tower, to her parents who she just now know are her parents, to the people, the faces and names that she doesn't know, that need her help because of what took place so many years ago.

And the knowledge she is who she is and an instinctive realization of what that means, to be a princess, to be part of the royal family.

A long way from being a waitress, she thinks, and frowns at herself, for the thought. It is selfish.

"You know my dad didn't keep you alive all that time just so you can go wondering about in the dark to get yourself killed," a voice says, not recognizable but recognizable.

DG turns, her magic thrumming up a notch, at the maybe threat but the face is familiar, younger, but familiar and she automatically scans every inch of Jeb's person before returning to his face.

He stands with his hand on the pistol at his waist and DG finds herself smiling at the younger Cain.

"Hello," she says.

Jeb looks the woman in front of him up and down, similar to what she did moments before, taking in the other world clothes, the slightly tattered nature of them after going through the last little while, the hair wild about her face and the dark shadows he can make out even in the limited light of the moon. He wonders about her, this woman just a little older than him, the one his dad has sworn to protect.

"Did you not hear what I said?" He asks again, irritation clear.

"You sound like your dad," she says as an answer.

The irritation grows and DG almost laughs to see it on his face.

She waves a hand. "I'm fine, see no harm done to me."

"But there could be," he continues.

DG feels the claustrophobia and wonders at it. She nods. "Could be, but won't be. Don't worry about me, nothing to worry about."

The younger Cain shakes his head. "No, sorry your highness, but you really shouldn't be out here without some escort and as everyone is helping the wounded there is no reason for you to be out here at all."

DG thinks about snapping at him, similar to something she might have done earlier that day but she doesn't, instead she studies his face. "Okay, lead the way," she says.

He turns and she watches him, a moment, and whether she knew it once or she learns it then, the magic moves across her skin and she turns and walks away, silent in the night.

She knows it selfish, knows it with a certainty in her gut, but she can't go back, not right now, later, she will, later of course, but right now she needs to leave, move away, slip away and she finds her magic helps her to do so.

DG doesn't hear it when Jeb realizes she is not following, doesn't realize he goes to his father about what she'd done.

She walks on.

The dawn finds her sitting on a rock looking out over a lake stretched out before her, towards the slowly pinking sky laced with lavender the same color as her mother's eyes.

Her mother finds her there as if DG's thoughts bring her to the place.

"The beauty is sometimes hard to remember when there is darkness all around," her mother says. Her voice is soft, musical, interwoven with the magic of the place.

DG does not stir from where she sits, legs curled up towards her chest, arms around her knees. The wind moves dark hair across her cheek and she lets it, shielding her eyes.

"I know this will be hard," the older woman continues, looking across the expanse of water and marveling at it, the light glistening against it, through its depths even as worry is heavy on her shoulders.

So many things for worry, causing, existing.

"There will be times, when you will have the ability, you will travel by yourself, able to exist without having a guard or having an escort, but that time is not yet."

The places a hand on her daughter's shoulder. It is light, barely a touch.

DG does not look up from where she gazes.

"You are the face of the good right now, my daughter, a face of the one who took down the witch and as such there will be no peace, not from those wishing to protect you nor from those wishing you harm. You are a both a target and a symbol of something great and this is the duty that is yours to carry because of who you are and what has been done."

And there is truth, in the words, brutal in its edge of honesty, in the words not said but there.

And DG's throat is tight, closed with a vice like hold, but her eyes are dry, tired and dry, and the tears are not there because it is the truth, all of it, the complexity of it, but truth.

"There will be war," her mother continues and DG looks up then. Her mother's face is drawn, but clear, peaceful even though the words are not.

She does not look down at her daughter. "There is always war when a nation is weak within its own borders and we are so very weak right now." The hand at DG's shoulder squeezes lightly. "And you need to have strength for what will come and all that it will entail."

A smile then, across the older woman's features, flickering, brief but there. "And you have those who will help, will guide, and in this, I promise you, you will not be alone."

DG feels the rebellion part of her, the part of her yearning for the road, the motorcycle, the feel of wind against her skin and hair, wiping her clean, taking away the stink of it all.

But there is something greater at work, something more, so instead of staying there, when her mother's hand falls away she stands from her rock. She shakes away the tiredness, the exhaustion.

Because there is something more, something she must do though she isn't quite sure what that might be, but something, to make up for what had happened, what will continue to happen and more, to battle the darkness she feels.

Darkness. Flickering, grasping, wanting and urging. Sensual.

And a deep unconscious knowledge that her magic thrums in response to it.

With measured steps, along the side of the queen, DG walks back to the castle.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: see chapter 1_

* * *

_"One need not be a chamber to be haunted;_

_One need not be a house;_

_The brain has corridors surpassing_

_Material place." _

_-Emily Dickinson_

The cell smelled of human waste. The tall man in black wondered if it was on purpose or if it was something left over from the Witch. He didn't care, not really, the stench no worse than what he'd experienced other times in his life, no worse than memories of darkness, a complete and utter blackness, and the knowledge, certainty, of death and all it entailed. But before death, pain and a pain so great it left no room for reason, let alone a sense of smell.

An echo, along his bones.

He might of not noticed the smell, might of dismissed it, but he did not dismiss the storm outside the thick walls of the cell, wind and rain battering against the side of stone, not seeing the flash of lightning but feeling it along his arms and at the back of his neck.

The knowledge of what the storm existed for was ingrained in him, like breathing, like the slow flow of blood through his veins and the distant memory of a magic he once knew but didn't any longer.

He got to his feet, smooth and fluid, actions belying his experiences the last several years. He watched as the shadows grew around him, lengthen, became solid. A presence without face but with form, massive, swallowing matter and thought.

Zero smiled.

* * *

Cain watches from the shadows of the trees, hidden and blended, cool blue eyes moving back and forth as he waits, keeps his mind focused, away from thought and emotion.

Thoughts and emotions persist.

The memory is not one he chooses to remember and as such it flickers in and out, even as he watches DG and the Queen walk back to the castle. But the flash of memory is persistent, demanding, and when they disappear into the stone interior of the castle he lets it take him, even as his eyes continue to scan the area surrounding.

Because he should not fear memory.

Because even if he does fear the memory, a cold and prickly insistence at the base of his spine, he should not hesitate in the face it.

He calls himself a coward even as the memory takes him, into the interior of a sunlit cabin and the smell of baking bread, of a small boy laughing in the corner with a toy horse and a woman standing in the light from an open door wiping her hands on a towel. The memory is powerful, wrenching and as it plays, rolls over him, he finds it is easy to forget reality.

To live there.

To not remember the death and the horror and the blood, guts and pain.

Peace, in the smell of baking bread.

But the memory falls, warps, creates a different one. This memory of walking away, of leaving without looking back, because to look back was to question his decision in life, to question doing his duty to the state of O.Z. and those running it.

And the horror of the duty, of the long days and longer nights, of the stink of mankind and the knowledge it will never get any better.

And the memory of once more at that cabin, dark and silent in the night, once more lying next to the form of his wife, smooth skin against his own, cool against the heat of his, but the knowledge of the horrors, of painted faces, painted with greed, lust and rage, not easily dismissed.

Unable to forget.

An ache there, standing underneath the trees so many years later. An ache along his bones, shoulders, deep in his belly. Remembering how he moved his fingertips over Adora's skin, a flicker across her shoulder, along the line of her neck, and thinking all the time of the preciousness of it all.

Too accurate, he thinks, now, all too accurate. The sheer preciousness of life. Of breathing in and out, of his heart beating in his chest.

He moves a hand across his eyes, as to erase the memories there, the past and the present combining and twisting to create something all together new and not all together comfortable.

His hand falls from his eyes to the butt of his gun and he looks to where DG had disappeared into the castle.

A duty, and with the duty comes responsibilities, and he doesn't think he is ready to wonder about what those responsibilities mean now. After last night, after that moment when she had stood with the Queen and the knowledge, swift and precise, visited him, the knowledge that she was a princess, the princess.

Irony. Continuing when Jeb had found him, told him about her disappearing, and he had known, exactly, where she would go and had found her there.

Watching from the shadows.

Fighting the memories, until he'd retreated back to the castle, a silent step in the morning's silence, to find the Queen, to tell her of her daughter's whereabouts.

Duty. Always in the nature of who he is.

Duty.

It's what causes him to move from the shadows when he sees Glitch making his way through the tents surrounding the castles, tall and thin with a mop of dark hair against the morning blue sky, the zipper glinting in the rising light.

Cain's eyes flicker over the zipper, a flicker of sadness across his face, watching the man walk towards him for a moment, before continuing to scan the area.

The tents, all dark green and heavy with moisture from last night's storms dot the landscape, fires here and there, the smell of smoking wood and of breakfast being served up. And individuals, bodies, moving about, assigned tasks being done with languid movements of tiredness, of many days battling but without the frenzy of emotion and adrenaline that comes with the battle and the precious few moments afterwards when all is won.

The left over bits, when all you know is tiredness, aching, but the understanding that there is so much left to do and it must get done. Somehow.

Cain walks with silent step towards Glitch, long practice not portraying his own exhaustion, the suppression of it so ingrained in his being he doesn't mentally realize the exhaustion. Only knows he must keep going, that there will be time later for conversation with his son, time later for recreating a life in a world without the witch.

His eyes stray towards the castle once more, looking unconsciously for the form of DG. Something inside does not allow him to acknowledge the act and no one is around to point it out to him.

"How's it goin' zipperhead?" he asks from behind Glitch who had stopped in mid walk to watch one of the woman fighters make breakfast.

Glitch jumps and turn. Cain grins.

"Good morning to you, too, Mr. Cain," Glitch says, with only a slight frown at the Tin Man. "You are requested by the Queen, DG, no, the Princess, no the Queen and her Consort, to, to to…" Glitch shakes his head. Continues. "In matters of the state."

Cain raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes. Immediately."

The 'immediately' grates on his nerves, but Cain ignores it, nodding slightly. "You going to show me where to go or just stand there?"

Glitch rolls his eyes and turns towards the castle.

He keeps scanning the area about them as they move through the tents. Scanning the line of trees, scanning the castle, scanning beyond the trees into the shadows. There is no reason for Cain to believe an attack is eminent, not with the main force of the Witch's army dismantled and her as well, but he does it out of habit, just as he keeps the palm of his hand on the butt of his gun. Firm, smooth, assured, underneath his skin.

Familiar. There have been a lot of unfamiliar things in the last little while and he doesn't much like how they tickle at the base of his neck. Uncomfortable and he doesn't appreciate the uncomfortable nature of it.

He keeps his hand on his gun, blue eyes under the brim of his hat scanning the area once more before entering the castle.

Smooth, dankness and the distant echo of voices. Claustrophobia is real, pressing, but like much of what he is, Cain does not notice, not at least enough to affect him, distant, somewhere in the back of his mind, but not locally.

He follows Glitch, his step quiet behind the former advisor's form.

He expects to be led to a formal room, some sort of royal hall but the hallways twist and wind and he climbs several staircases before Glitch stops in front of a large oak door.

Glitch knocks. The sound echoes against the stones and the empty hallway.

"Could use some interior work," Cain said in the silence that follows the knock, looking at down the hallway at the lack of furniture or anything else. A long tunnel of stone.

"At one point it was so beautiful, so much life," Glitch says, looking the same way as Cain, frowning slightly. "So beautiful…" he murmurs to himself, as if almost remembering.

The door opens. Cain nods slightly at the Queen's consort standing at the door. He is not real sure what the proper greeting is but figures a nod works.

Ahamo gestures the two men in and Cain allows Glitch to proceed first, something tightening in his gut. Caution, but towards what he is not entirely sure.

He follows Glitch into the room, his eyes slowly moving about the interior. It's for safety, precaution, but the tightness in his gut lessens, eases, when he catches sight of DG's familiar figure next to the corner window. He allows a moment, a second, to notice how she stands, the sloop of her shoulders, the morning light not helping to conceal the exhaustion written in the lines of her face.

He wonders if she slept. And then wonders if it should matter to him.

Cain looks at the queen who is watching him. He takes his hat from his head, knowing that, at least, is proper.

She smiles, eyes softening for a moment. Cain looks down, bows slightly, unnerved, unsure and decidedly not appreciating the feel of it. Not because she is the Queen, but because he knows those lavender eyes see a lot more than he might want them to.

When he straightens her eyes are no longer liquid but hard, queenly. He is relieved.

"Please, sit, Mr. Cain, we are only waiting for Azkadelia."

Cain nods once. He sits in one of the chairs around a large oak table, the surface so smooth it feels like silk under his calloused palm. Cool and smooth, like the butt of his gun.

The door opens once more and Cain moves his eyes, his body still, watching the former witch walk in to the room, thinking, with surprise that the woman dressed in the light blue gown, dark hair pulled up and away from her face, does not look like the sorceress he has killed again and again in his dreams.

Bloody dreams, full of pain and terror. Her pain and terror, begging, screaming, echoing through his mind.

The eldest sister inclines her head towards her mother and her father and gives DG, who has turned from the window, a small smile, a slight relaxing of facial muscles. Cain sees it, interprets it and looks at DG with a slight glance of approval.

Something passed between the sisters the night before, he knows, is aware and what it was helped the woman who was a witch but is no longer. Pride, he thinks of the warmth under his ribcage, pride of the girl known as DG who joins him at the table, a white hand with long slim fingers absently moving hair from her face. Pride, as if she were his own daughter.

Lavender Eyes and Ahamo takes their seats, Glitch taking his, and Cain finds his hand falls on the butt of his gun once more.

Tension, pallid in the air.

Lavender Eyes begins the meeting, looking at Cain. Her words are blunt. "Zero disappeared from his cell last night."

Cain's grip on his gun increases though he his expression on his face does not change. Smooth lines, eyes like chips of ice crystal. Cold, calculating.

"Someone broke him out?" Cain asks. There is no emotion in his voice either. Cold, flat. If he were not entirely focused on the answer to his question he might have noticed DG scanning his face with worried eyes.

But he is focused, precise, looking on the Queen and her consort, waiting. Patience with an edge of something else.

Ahamo shakes his head. "From what it appears, he was not broken out, the cell was under constant surveillance and no one came in or out. The stone walls are six feet thick in that part of the castle and the cell itself was protected with magic."

"He can't just disappear." Flat.

"But it appears he has," Lavender Eyes remarks.

Silence then, heavy and complete. Cain glances at Azkedelia. The woman does not look up, she looks at her hands, clasped in front of her on the table, tendrils of dark hair against the pale skin of her skin.

"It wasn't her," DG interrupts the silence, anger in her words.

Cain moves his gaze to the younger sister. Blue eyes pierce him, flashing in heat, anger in the set of her chin.

"I didn't say it was, princess," he says. The title is proper, the tone is not.

"You don't have to," she replies.

He looks away from DG and her gaze, back to her mother.

Lavender Eyes looks on him, calmly, serene almost, and Cain feels a moment flash of irritation, that the Queen is not as concerned as she should be.

But it fades, the irritation seeping away, when he sees her own hands, partially hidden under the table, but only partially, the way she holds them together in her lap, extreme, white knuckled and steady.

Cain looks up and meets her eyes.

"So, we find him. We investigate the situation and we find him," he says.

Lavender Eyes inclines her head slightly. "Just so. One of the reasons why we have asked you here is because we feel you will be able to gather a task force, which we hope will include your son, in order to take over the investigation into Zero's disappearance."

"Jeb is leading the resistance. He is needed there," Cain answers bluntly.

"Yes," the Consort answers.

Cain switches his gaze to the other man.

Ahamo continues. "But we are limited in the amount of men we trust right now. We trust you, we trust your son."

Cain looks from him back to the Queen, brows slightly furrowed.

"I seem to be missing something here. Seems to me you have two men, two issues that need to be addressed, your new army and the issue of Zero. Two equals two, so what is the problem?"

Cain is surprised when DG answers the question.

"I am to go to the L.Z., in an ambassadorial position. They want you to come with me." Her voice is quiet, steady, but when Cain meets her eyes there is something there that is uneasy, unsure, pleading but not necessarily.

He doesn't know if it is just his imagination, if he is putting something there that is not, but whatever the case, he looks away because he can't look for too long.

It hurts his nerves, his skin taught, the base of his spine a flare of pain, intense, unknown.

He looks back at the Queen.

"Why is she going now?"

"Because in times of weakness, a country needs allies, and in order to do so we must reestablish relationships with both the Upper Zone and Lower Zone. I cannot go, Azkedelia cannot go, there is only DG and Ahamo left and there are two countries we need to assure relationships with. As you say, Mr. Cain, two equals two."

He feels like swearing. Feels it because the lack of control over everything is a windstorm in his brain. No control.

His hand flexes on the butt of his gun and he resettles under his duster, wishing for his hat, the brim secure over his eye. His hat instead sits on the table, appropriate for the company he is in but not helping him fight against the maelstrom in his mind.

No control.

He looks at DG who is watching him. He can't read her face but only because he refuses to.

Duty.

He looks back at the Queen.

"When?"

"This afternoon."

Swearing. He bites down on it. Hard.

"Right, then I need to speak to Jeb, need to inform him of the situation. I want to take a look at the cell as well, before we go."

The Queen inclines her head once more. A habit, Cain thinks, the whole gracefully inclining her head thing.

"Then I will need supplies, just the two of us, so not much…"

"And me," Glitch interrupts.

Cain raises an eyebrow at Glitch, who, up to this point, has stayed silent. Cain glances at the Queen.

"It is possible they will be able to reverse the procedure performed on him," the Queen answers.

Cain does not miss Azkadelia's flinch.

He keeps the irritation, the sarcastic remarks, the swearing, inside, bottled in his throat, hot in his chest.

"Right," he says instead.

"Talk to your son," Ahamo says, interrupts almost, taking control. Precise and specific.

Cain feels it, the taking of control. And he reacts, physically, in the increased pulse of blood through his veins. Anger. Resentment.

Once upon a time he was okay with taking orders, with authority, with having someone tell him what to do. He wonders, briefly, but for an instant, where the blind faith has gone, where the unquestioning disappeared to.

He thinks maybe it has to do with the iron suit. With the images of his wife, son, branded, hot, searing, against the delicate nature of his eyeballs.

He lets his fingers relax, he moves them back and forth, blood along the joints. Focus. Duty.

"Then come back, three hours time, we will go over the arrangements then," the Consort continues.

Cain waits, waits for more and when none comes he figures the discussion is over. "Dismissed then?" He asks and he can't help the edge.

The Queen smiles slightly and in the smile is something that makes him feel almost guilty. Duty.

He takes the smile and the silence for his answer, standing slowly up from his chair. Something creaks along his bones and he feels old.

He takes his hat from the table, puts it on his head, feeling instant relief at the action, an easement in his chest, to be hidden under the brim, in shadows.

He touches the dark brim with a finger and turns away from those at the table.

He does not look in the direction of DG, does not make eye contact with her.

The maelstrom follows him from the room, a dark cloud of something uncontrollable shadowing his step.


End file.
